


Sweet Fear of the Flightless

by Leviafan



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 1830s, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 07:12:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1257514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leviafan/pseuds/Leviafan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An encounter at the Luxembourg Gardens of a different species.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Fear of the Flightless

**Author's Note:**

> I got carried away with animal metaphors. And I tried playing with the tense, not sure if it works.

There were always doves in the Luxembourg gardens. Some people called them pigeons, and perhaps that was their official taxonomy, but the young girl and her father always called them doves. He found it easy to see beauty in the most unexpected corners, and she felt sorry for the drab birds. She may even have sympathized with them unconsciously, for she was not yet aware of beauty as it applied to herself; but hers too was veiled by soot-colored feathers, though in her case they were made of damask.

The old man too was clad in grey feathers. It was as if he knew the best way to go unnoticed was to sit at the very center of neutrality, without veering to one side or the other. This worked very well for months. No one did take any notice of the pair, made even less likely by the habitual nature of their visits.

But habit does not shield from others changing theirs. After several months of safety, the old man felt a familiar prickling at the back of his neck. He did not turn to look; he did not need to. Only one thing could cause that sensation. He was being watched. The only question was, by whom?

For as much as the old man stood out, he might well have been a pigeon himself. As for the girl, she was a dove. In the old man's eyes certainly, her voice a precious cooing to his ears. But she was growing into her beauty. This did not go unnoticed either by the pigeon or by others.

One such was a young male pigeon who had, miracle of coincidences, also caught her attention. Tenfold more worrisome to the old man was the one with eyes of a cat.

He spies this feline predator before he was seen himself. He is a deceptively sharp-eyed bird. And at first he hopes they would escape his notice entirely. Alas, the cat misses nothing and so it is with this man. He tends towards the margins, yet still sees all through hooded leopard's gaze. The girl is the first target of this terrible glance. It slides over her, impersonal but penetrating, its taint of suspicion worse to her guardian than any lechery.

Inevitably that same glance is turned on him. A slight ruffling of feathers is the only sign he gives, replacing his hat on his head, his hand trembling minutely. Otherwise he does not change their pattern at all. Their visits to the gardens continue at the same time of day. This is as much for the dove's benefit as for the cat's. She cannot suspect they are being watched. If she does, she will ask him why, and he cannot answer, not with truth.

Then one day the pigeon takes a risk, abandons the security of numbers. He comes alone. Somehow he contrives to keep the dove at home. As he suspected, the cat seizes the bait. No sooner has he perched himself on their customary bench than he feels the eyes on him. Not long after, the seat beside him is occupied. The man's manner is abrupt, rough, almost uncultured. Anyone who happened across the newly created tableau might have wondered at the odd juxtaposition, why the old man should permit it.

Even if someone had wondered, neither man would have noticed. They are too engrossed in the game that is not a game. The hunt. Pursued and pursuer, each appearing aloof but watching each other closely.The cat does not pounce immediately but sits calmly beside his prey. This time it is not a languorous stretching and experimental unsheathing and retraction of claws before the attack. This time he is genuinely not sure of his prey, and this cat always makes sure of his prey before he pounces, now more than ever. After last time... no, he will not lose his man, but he will also be sure of him.

For a minute neither man speaks. The old man, the pigeon, he watches his brothers pecking at on the ground before and wishes he had their gift of flight. Even the lowliest of birds has wings, but he has none. He is firmly earthbound, no matter how much his eyes look heavenward. Then the river of his thoughts is arrested in its flow by words, a too-familiar voice.

"Where is the girl today?"

This is not the direction in which he wants the cat's gaze to turn. Without looking, he answers, "She is ill."

"Ah."

A silence stretches in the illusion of infinity. No well-wishes, no sympathy. Yes, this is the same cat that has plucked at his tail-feathers before.

"Why did you come?"

"Pardon?"

"If she is ill, why are you not at home tending to her?"

"She is not alone."

No answer, just a nod. From the corner of his eye he can see the man's eyes watching the pigeons. Perhaps it is only the angle of the light, but it seems to him they have lost something of their interrogatory gleam. Nevertheless he persists: "Who is with her?"

This is prying. He would be within his rights to refuse.

He does not.

"Our housekeeper. She is a good, a trustworthy woman."

"That is well. So, you come here for yourself today."

Finally the old man glances over. At the movement the cat looks too, and for the first time their eyes meet directly. There is no speech as they appraise each other. What are they looking for? The pigeon, for signs that he is about to be devoured. As for the cat... unusually for him, he does not quite know. He thinks he recognizes this bird from somewhere, but he cannot place him. Who is he, and why should he know him?

The old man is the first to speak again. "I would not come if I did not enjoy the gardens." A soft snort comes from beside him. The cat is skeptical. Cynical. "Why do you come if you do not?"

"I? I come to observe. I see the people and nothing else."

He frowns. "That is no way to live."

"I walk, I breathe, I work. That is living enough for me."

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing."

He has looked away. Back to the pigeons and their search for sustenance. Silence again, then: "You are alone?"

A head turns, the other turns away. "Does it matter?"

As if unconnected, he gives a bottomless sigh, devotes his attention to the ground. "To me, no. But it should to you, monsieur."

This last word seems to take the cat by surprise, perhaps more than the rest. "Should it?"

"It should. What is good about being alone? There is a time and place for it, but there is also—"

"I need no one else." He notices movement. This time it is the cat who stares into the dust at their feet. "And no one needs me. It is better this way."

"You see it as better. That does not make it so."

He is back under that calm gaze. The curve of one raised eyebrow makes him think of the crescent moon and how much easier it would be to escape under cover of darkness.

"I trust no one's opinion but my own." This is not quite true. His independence of thought stretches only so far as the bounds of authority allow. He will not explain all this to the not-stranger.

Besides, the pigeon already knows, even though his predator does not know he knows.

"I am sorry. Trust is not easy, but it has its rewards."

"My reward is the satisfaction of a job done, and done well." There is suddenly a harsh note to his growl. An aggressive purr, the old man thinks. Satisfaction, and also anger, as though what the pigeon has said caused offense. "Still, I don't begrudge others their fancies. It's all the same to me."

"What is your work?"

"I am a writer." If he sees the slight movement of the old man's head, he does not think enough of it to comment. "It is why I like to watch people."

"Would it not be better to engage them? You cannot be alone and understand them at the same time."

"And who are you?" The timbre of his voice changes abruptly. He is curt, perfunctory, martial.

"I?" There is the tiniest of pauses. "My name is Fabre."

"And what do you do, Fabre?"

The omission of 'monsieur' is blatant and to the pigeon, alarming.

"I live on my pension."

"And where—"

"I am sorry, monsieur, but I must go." With an apologetic bob of his head, the old man rises from the bench, tips his hat to the man with cat's eyes. "You are right, my daughter should not be without me." He pauses and with soulful glance adds, "Happy hunting."

The cat watches him go, unsettled. Why had he not pounced?


End file.
